


Can't Help Writing Johnlock Ficlets

by PrussianInAmerica



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Christmas songs, Declarations Of Love, Doctor Watson, Doctor!John, First Kiss, Fluff, Ice Cream, John is a bed furnace, Kid!Lock, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock's Scarf - Freeform, Sherlock's experiments, Sick!Sherlock, Sickfic, Spooning, Traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrussianInAmerica/pseuds/PrussianInAmerica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I decided to write a Johnlock ficlet for every day of December leading up to Christmas, but only ended up doing six, leading me to change this to just little ficlets barely associated with Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caroling (221b)

**Author's Note:**

> None of these are connected unless I specifically say so at the beginning of one.
> 
> Lots of fluffy kid!lock in this particular one. And caroling. Because I can.

It was a tradition started by their mothers years before, and though John's mother had died he and Harry were content to keep it up. After all, if they didn't go caroling with the Holmes', it was likely to turn into a rather boring affair. And Sherlock threw a fit if John wasn't there, as he demonstrated the year John had a nasty case of pneumonia. Not that he would admit it was a fit if there was a knife against his throat.

Sherlock was a very weird twelve year old. When John was twelve and he didn't wear gloves in the winter, it was because he forgot them in his excitement. When Sherlock did, it was because he wanted to test how long before his hands started shaking from the cold. Which he decided to do the night they all went caroling. John was the only one to notice.

"Sherlock, where are your gloves?"

"At home."

"Why?"

"Experiment."

"Mycroft told you not to experiment on yourself anymore. Christ, you're shaking. Give them here." John grabbed the younger boy's hands and pressed them between his own, bringing them up to his face to blow hot breath over them a few times.

No one noticed them lagging behind as the fourteen year old boy attempted to warm a twelve year old boy.


	2. Kiss with a Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock shows up unexpectedly in John's flat.

John hadn't punched Sherlock since just before they met Irene Adler for the first time. Oh, he'd thought about it a few times, but it wasn't out of the ordinary. Who could deal with a Holmes as often as he did and not feel like punching him every once in a while? John thought maybe he'd like to meet this person, but then, Sherlock might decide that they were better than him and then where would he be?

He wasn't sure if it felt the same as it had the first time. That was Before. Years ago now. Now he was standing in the foyer of his flat - not 221b; He hadn't lived there in years - with bags of shopping dropped at his feet, watching Sherlock clutch at his nose to check if it was broken. It wasn't. It would have been if John wanted to break it, though. He was out of practice, but he was confident he could do at the very least that.

It felt normal. Do the shopping, go home, punch Sherlock in the face, put away the shopping, make dinner, ect... It wasn't. But what was normal about them?

He was dead. There was a stone in the ground that said his name and proved he was dead. There was a date on the calender that John had blacked out for the last three years and had used to spend some quality time with his sofa. There was a type of hat he couldn't look at anymore. There had been too much blood on the sidewalk, dammit.

He'd used a cane for his limp before he met Sherlock. Then he stopped, because there was no limp. Four and a half years ago he would have laughed - or stared, he didn't know which anymore - at someone if they'd told him he would think finding a head when he was looking for milk was normal. He wouldn't have just gotten into suspicious black cars without a second thought. He wouldn't have jumped on the back of a known psychopath with a bunch of bombs strapped to his chest. Or maybe he would have. But not like he had when Sherlock was in danger.

John remembered a time when composing hadn't meant something was wong, just that someone was writing music. When running after suspected criminals was just another normal day. When he didn't still get occassional calls from one reporter or another asking him for an in depth interview with Sherlock Holmes' only friend in the world.

Just barely.

He just barely remembered what life was like before Sherlock Holmes. He remembered all too well what it was like after him, and the memories of his time with Sherlock were blurring at the edges.

If he let Sherlock back in, it was possible he would do this again. And if he did it again, it was probable he would do it multiple times. That wasn't something John was willing to live with.

If he didn't, he wasn't sure he would be able to go back to his new "normal" life. Once the media found out Sherlock was alive they would swarm him again. He didn't want to have to deal with that anymore.

Unfortunately, there was no third option.

He could learn to deal with the media on his own, or he could have Sherlock back and the media could go fuck themselves.

Approximately seven seconds after punching him in the face, John pulled Sherlock down by his hair - when did it get so short? He didn't like it - and kissed him.

Personally? The media could go fuck themselves either way. But he might as well get something out of it.

Hanging around Sherlock Holmes had certain risks he'd accepted long ago.


	3. Grumblings from the Resident Bedroom Furnace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sleeps. John tries not to shove the snuggly bastard off the bed.

Let it be known that Sherlock Holmes does sometimes sleep. And when he sleeps (after a case or when John has been on his case about it), he cuddles. He does not wrap his arms around what he cuddles, which John is immensly grateful for at times, but he snuggles up to the closest, warmest solid object he can find and stays there. The entire night. And besides having bony elbows pressed into his back for several hours, John might have been able to appreciate this had his body not run hot during the night.

Sherlock might not be the human furnace John is, but the extra body heat pressed up against him was not exactly helpful. Since he started sharing a bed with Sherlock, John found himself waking up in the middle of the night more often than not.

He couldn't complain, though. There were worse things than having six feet of consulting detective pressed snug against your backside all night long.


	4. In Which Sherlock's Scarf Gets Washed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's scarf goes through a lot. John decides to give it a little TLC.

Over the last few cases, John had noticed that Sherlock's scarf was picking up bits and pieces of crime scenes. A bit of dirt from Sherlock stooping too low while examining a footprint, some chalk dust leftover after a distraction used to apprehend a criminal - armed robbery, not murder - and, inexplicably, blood. Not his own, of course.

Sherlock paid these things no attention, but the more John noticed the harder it was for him to ignore. Bearing this in mind, it only made sense for him to put it in the wash with the rest of Sherlock's things that did not need to be dry cleaned - because most of his ridiculous clothes did.

John did not anticipate that Sherlock might get a case while his scarf was in the dryer, or that upon finding out where his scarf was, Sherlock might march to the dryer with the intention of taking the still sopping article out of the machine and trying to wear it out of the flat.

He did, however, notice in time to pull it off of his flatmate and place it back in the dryer, promising that, "It'll be dry in twenty minutes, and it'll be warm and clean when it is."

Sherlock spent those twenty minutes pacing and moping about the flat, grumbling about John's inablility to do these things at appropriate times. He sent a very long text to Lestrade, explaining that he and John would be late due to John's need to keep everything that was not his tidy and clean, narrating it aloud as he typed. He sat in his chair and pouted for a bit.

When the buzzer finally signaled the end of the dry cycle, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin - which John would later admit to Lestrade was as hilarious as it sounded - before running to the dryer and yanking his scarf out, causing a few of his other things to tumble out onto the floor. He wrapped the blue cloth about his neck and closed his eyes for a second, taking in the warmth.

On the steps of 221, Sherlock bent down the few inches to kiss both of John's cheeks, only saying a quick and quiet thank you before hailing a cab to take them to the crime scene.

John blamed the sudden flushing of his cheeks on the warmth still radiating off the scarf.


	5. I don't want any damn soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants something, but it's definitely not what John had in mind.

A sick Sherlock Holmes is an unhappy Sherlock Holmes, and an unhappy Sherlock Holmes usually ends with an extremely irritable John Watson. This, in turn, usually leads to one John Watson leaving the flat for the evening if not the whole night. However, in such a case as Sherlock being sick and unable to care for himself (moreso than usual), John stays and usually spends most of the night trying to force feed his overgrown toddler of a flatmate soup and medicine.

"You're only going to continue being sick if you don't take your medicine."

"You bean as I hab been for the past sebenteen hours?" John would be lying if he said one of the reasons he took care of Sherlock when he was sick willingly wasn't that he couldn't make everything sound as condescending when his nose was stuffed up. "I think I'll take by chances."

"At least eat your soup. You can't keep starving yourself when you're sick like this." Sherlock gave him one of his looks. The one that said, in no uncertain terms, I can and I will and you can't stop me.

"The longer you're sick the longer until you can take cases again."

"I don't hab any cases right now, Jawn."

"And what if Greg calls you onto one?"

Sherlock sniffed a little and pulled his blanket closer. "He won't. All his current cases are so ridiculously simple even _Anderson_ could solve them on his own."

"As your doctor I'm ordering you to eat this soup, drink three glasses of orange juice a day, and take your sodding medicine." Sherlock didn't look impressed.

"You're not my doctor."

"I'm the closest thing you have to one, seeing as you refuse to see anyone else."

They stared at each other for a minute, both stubborn as they come.

"Is there anything you'll consent to eating?"

As if Sherlock had been anticipating this very question (and hell, he probably had), he had an answer at the ready immediately. "Ice cream."

"No. Dairy isn't good for you right now."

John still believed fifteen years later that what Sherlock did next was only in his mind and was therefore an early symptom of the nasty cold he caught off the detective's own the next day. Because Sherlock Holmes _did not_ pout and reason that " _Mummy_ always let me have ice cream when I was sick" through his stuffed nose. It just wasn't possible.

However, that seemed to be the case at the time, which made John remember that Sherlock was actually human (more than the fact that he was sick). Ice cream did almost always seem like a good idea when you were sick, even when you knew the consequences. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad to indulge Sherlock a little.

Sherlock's grin was splitting his face, and John knew he could tell the exact moment when he had caved. "Only a _small_ bowl."

"Of course, Doctor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't doubt my ability to pull something out of my ass at the last minute, and tomorrow's is already written and ready to post, but I'd like to hear your ideas for other ficlets. Feel free to message me or comment with any ideas you have, just keep it PG. I don't feel confident enough in my porn writing skills to pull them out for this.
> 
> Fair warning, tomorrow's ficlet is short (like, not even three full paragraphs) and Reichenbach-y. Sorry about that.


	6. He did the only thing he knew to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about this. I intended for all of the ficlets to be fluffy and cute with the exception of Kiss with a Fist, but then this happened while I was supposed to be doing Econ stuff.

London carried on below as it always had. On the roof, however, there lay a dead man and a dead man walking. Standing, rather. On the edge. Observing anything and everything. Watching the blond man push himself out of the cab and onto the streets again. Watching him pull out his mobile and answer it. And then talking to him.

By the time he threw his own mobile to the side, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer. Logically, he knew he'd be fine. No one else would know that, which meant they would be safe. John would be safe. John wouldn't know that he was fine, but he would be safe, so it was worth it.

But for the second time in his life, Sherlock was afraid.

He fell.


	7. Declarations and Doctor Who

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock muses aloud about his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the beginning of a 5+1 thing (5 Times Sherlock Tried to Tell John he Loved him and 1 Time John Succeeded) but I couldn't figure out what to write for the other five things. So here's this.

Looking back, Sherlock now knew he should have checked that John was listening. He was lucky John was even in the flat, let alone the room.

"I never thought I would be capable of an emotion like this." He would have saved himself a lot of trouble if he had looked over at John before or even after he had said this. He stared at ceiling instead. "I'm not a sentimental creature, John. You know that. I wrote this off as an imposibility when I was quite young, and honestly, it probably shaped me a good deal more than I knew it would. But even knowing what I know now, if it were possible - and it's not, no matter what that stupid show you watch with the police box says - I would not go back and tell myself. I would have laughed at myself, and isn't that a peculiar thought? Laughing at my future self for telling my past self that I would one day fall in love with an ex-army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan who follows me around and calls me brilliant."

"Sorry, what was that, Sherlock? Couldn't hear you over the telly."

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was looking at him and holding the remote - obviously he'd just turned the volume down and had not even caught the end of Sherlock's declaration. He'd been watching the stupid show about the blue police box.

"It's not possible." He said, gesturing toward the screen before turning over to face the back of the sofa.

"Well, yeah, but we've been over this. It's Doctor Who. Anything is possible in Doctor Who."


	8. Christmas Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight angst for this one. Not much, though. No fluff to soften the blow either. Sorry. This one is Christmas-y, so at least it fits what I was originally going to post to this.

John liked Christmas songs. Actually, he loved them. The amount of Christmas songs he knew all the lyrics to was a number he'd stopped trying to count years ago. So when Christmas came around in 221b each year, he couldn't help playing them throughout the day and singing along. Sherlock looked mildly annoyed by this at times, but what didn't mildly annoy him at times?

They didn't really get to have a normal, happy Christmas together until their third one. The first one had been ruined by Irene Adler's supposed "death", and the second one was quiet and awkward because John still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for his Fall.

The third one was much better. Sherlock didn't set fire to anything with one of his experiments, they'd just finished up a case that had lasted for more than a month, and Mrs. Hudson had been baking nonstop since November.

One day, about a week and a half from Christmas, John was humming something close to The Island of Misfit Toys and Sherlock was sulking on the sofa.

"Why didn't you sing?"

John stopped humming. "Sorry, what?"

"The first Christmas when I was gone. You always sing those insipid songs at Christmastime, but you didn't that year. Why?" Sherlock sat up and stared at John as if he were a particularly stimulating case.

"I was grieving, Sherlock. Did you really expect I'd want to sing Christmas songs when my best friend had just died?"

"I hadn't just died. It'd been a full six months. Surely you were done grieving by then."

"I wasn't."

After staring at each other for a while, Sherlock fell back onto the sofa and John slowly started humming again. They didn't talk about it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this was supposed to be longer when I first wrote it, unfortunately that was months ago so I've completely forgotten where it was going. But I didn't leave it at a cliff hanger or anything, so I left it as is. It's not the happiest of endings, but not all endings are.


End file.
